


A sober man's thoughts

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, College Student Peter Parker, Drinking, Drunk Texting, Interactive Fiction, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The thing is, it's not the kind of text Peter is really used to getting. It's especially not the type of text he's used to getting from Mr. Stark. (Prompt: Tony drunk texts the wrong person; weirdness ensues)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 43
Kudos: 124
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5, is this thing (an)on?





	1. Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> I'm really intrigued by the idea of interactive fiction but haven't written it before, so I was excited when I saw it listed in your letter! Anyway, here's to hoping you enjoy. <3
> 
> On a technical note: if you have 'Hide Creator's Style' turned on by default, you may want to toggle that off so the formatting displays correctly, since this work uses a custom CSS skin for links and text messages. Also, the option buttons at the end of each chapter are coded to work in 'Chapter by Chapter' view. If anyone prefers reading in 'Entire Work' view, then please use the links in parenthesis under each respective button.

It's four in the morning when the first text comes in. Peter knows it's four in the morning because he told himself he'd be done with this problem set an hour ago so he could get half a night's sleep before he has to be up for class tomorrow (today, he reminds himself with a groan. Class later _today_ ) and yet here he is, awake at 4AM and still working on the last problem.

In any case, that's the excuse he's going to use if he ever needs to explain why it takes him a full five minutes of staring blankly at his phone screen before what he's seeing actually sinks in.

If you were here right now Id run my tongue over every inch of you

Sorry I shouldn't ve sent that

But I would

Peter drops his phone, wincing as it hits the desk with a clatter, his mouth going instantly dry. The thing is, it's not the kind of text Peter is really used to getting. It's especially not the type of text he's used to getting from Mr. Stark.

It has to be a wrong number, obviously. Whatever Mr. Stark is doing right now (and Peter emphatically does not think about the things he's expressly stated he's _not_ doing right now, but clearly wants to - with someone who is not Peter) he must be just as tired as Peter is, to make that kind of mistake.

Peter almost sets the phone down, prepared to ignore the whole thing (or at least to pretend to ignore it) but then he stops. Should he reply? It's probably better to let Mr. Stark know, right, so he doesn't keep sending messages to the wrong person?

But maybe not.

Maybe this is one of those things they can both just ignore until the end of time, and Peter can pretend he didn't get instantly, almost unbearably hard the second he'd managed to comprehend the words he was seeing on his screen.

Peter taps his fingers against the desk, trying to figure out how to reply. If he should reply at all, that is.

* * *

» Peter decides not to reply. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53139349#dontreply)  
(Chapter 3)

» 'Wrong number' [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53139340#wrongnumber)  
(Chapter 2)

» 'Yeah? And then what?' [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53139355#andthenwhat)  
(Chapter 4)

* * *


	2. Wrong Number

Wrong number

Peter types it out and sends it without hesitating. There. Straight to the point, non-judgemental, just... informative.

He puts the phone down. It's stupid to wait for an answer. Despite Mr. Stark’s promises to whichever lucky person he was trying to text, it was entirely possible the man had passed out the minute after he'd sent that last message.

Or maybe he was awake, and on seeing Peter's reply he was currently texting the person messages were actually meant for, the little communication mishap already forgotten.

Peter forces himself to go back to his problem set. If he finishes it tonight then he'll have time to go out patrolling after his last lecture tomorrow, and Friday nights were always crazy busy nights for patrolling.

But all the steadfast determination in the world doesn't stop him from grabbing his phone immediately when it buzzes with a reply. At first all it says is “Ouch,” but then a minute later another message comes through -

Only a wrong number if youre not interested

Peter sucks in a breath. No way. Mr. Stark can't really be serious with that, can he?

Peter isn't sure if he's more flattered or weirded out, like Mr. Stark thinks Peter will somehow forget the original text wasn't meant for him in the first place.

Then again, Peter figures for someone like Mr. Stark, it probably doesn’t take all that much effort anyway. Probably all he has to do is fire off a weird text at 4AM and everyone is onboard immediately. Peter’s already halfway there himself, if he’s honest.

He shifts in his seat, reaching down to adjust his jeans. Okay, so maybe more than halfway there. Was Mr. Stark seriously offering to - what was it? _Run his tongue over every inch of him?_ As if Peter could forget, like the words aren't already burned into his memory.

Are you serious?

No

Maybe

Do you want me to be?

_Yes_ , Peter thinks, but Mr. Stark is still typing so he forces himself not to reply just yet. Mr. Stark jokes about weird things sometimes, like when he wolf whistles at Peter every time he tries on a new version of the suit. He doesn't mean anything by it.

Don't answer that

* * *

» Peter's phone rings. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53193799#call)  
(Chapter 7)

* * *


	3. Don't Reply

He puts the phone back down. Face down, so the screen isn't right there, mocking him.

He goes back to his problem set. He's almost done, really, and if he can finish in the next - he checks his watch - eighteen minutes then he can get at least four hours of sleep. 

His phone buzzes again.

"Fuck," Peter mutters under his breath.

It could be Ned. Maybe. But Ned's been offline for at least the past three hours now, and Peter isn't that lucky. 

Maybe he doesn't need to sleep. Maybe he can go out patrolling instead. Burn off a little excess energy, protect the neighborhood, and most importantly, avoid the temptation to look at his phone until Mr. Stark notices he's been texting the wrong person.

Yeah, Peter is tired, but patrolling could work.

Wait no - that's a _terrible_ idea. Texts from Mr. Stark will still come through the suit's display if he goes out, and Peter knows from very personal experience that there's no easy or even vaguely comfortable way to ignore a boner when he's in his suit.

* * *

» Peter looks at the text. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53139364#lookattext)  
(Chapter 5)

» Peter doesn't look at the text, and goes back to his problem set. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53139367#dontlook)  
(Chapter 6)

* * *


	4. Yeah? And then what?

Yeah? And then what?

It's entirely possible that Peter doesn't breathe for a full minute after he sends his reply. Will Mr. Stark see his reply pop up and immediately realize he sent the message to the wrong person? What if he doesn't, and replies anyway? 

Or, better: what if he replies, knowing full well it's Peter he's talking to?

This was stupid. Mr. Stark must have already seen who the message was from, and now he's typing up an explanation, trying to figure out a way to let Peter down easy.

And then what is up to you

Peter's breath quickens. Mr. Stark hasn't noticed yet. ( _Or maybe he has, and he's playing along anyway_ , a treacherous little voice in the back of Peter's brain suggests.)

Peter has lots of ideas, many of which already involve Mr. Stark's mouth, so like, they're already on the right track there, but literally none of which he has ever in his wildest dreams considered actually sharing with Mr. Stark in real life. Peter sits, thumbs poised over the phone screen, utterly at a loss as to what to suggest; not for a lack of ideas, not at all, but for a sheer embarrassment of riches in that department.

Where does even start? What can he type that won't sound completely dumb? Oh god.

* * *

» Peter's phone rings. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53193799#call)  
(Chapter 7)

* * *


	5. Look at text

Against what is probably his better judgment, Peter looks at the text.

Cmon don't leave me hanging

There's a pause, then another text comes through.

Can I call you

_Shit_. There's no way Peter can explain out loud to Mr. Stark that he's got the wrong number. He has to tell him. For his own sanity, and remaining dignity.

* * *

_» Wrong number_ , Peter texts back with no small amount of regret. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53139340#wrongnumber)  
(Chapter 2)

* * *


	6. Call (1)

Ten minutes later, Peter's phone rings.

He stops dead at the sound, staring at his phone like it's a bomb. Actually, if it was a bomb that might be easier - Peter's dealt with bombs before.

Ignoring it might be okay. He could silence the ringer, delete the voicemail in the morning, if Mr. Stark happens to leave one. Or maybe Peter could listen to it, just once. Just to hear what Mr. Stark has to say.

Or Peter could answer the phone.

For the first few beats, all he can hear on the other end is the the steady sound of Mr. Stark breathing, as if he hasn't realized yet that Peter has picked up. Peter clears his throat, trying to figure out what to say. Mr. Stark beats him to the punch.

"Kid?"

"Yeah?"

Mr. Stark swears under his breath, low enough that most people probably wouldn't have caught it. "Sorry, Pete. Kid. I didn't - uh."

It hits Peter like a slap to the face. Mr. Stark isn't just tired or distracted; he's _drunk_. Slurring his words, can-barely-form-a-complete-thought kind of drunk.

"Are you okay?" Peter asks.

"No, yeah I'm fine. I'm great. Are you good?" There's a dull thud on the other side of the line, something falling to the floor. Peter hopes it wasn't Mr. Stark. "Aren't you supposed to be sleeping right now? Or studying?" Mr. Stark asks.

"I am studying. Or I was, until you uh, you know..."

"Until I texted you instead of Pepper?"

Oh.

Okay.

Peter's not sure what he'd been expecting, he's known ever since he read the first text that it obviously wasn't meant for him. It still sucks though, hearing it out loud like that.

"Call it a Freudian slip," Mr. Stark is saying.

"Huh?"

"I thought you were supposed to be in college, isn't obnoxious pop psych 101 like a required thing for freshman?" Apparently Mr. Stark can form a complete sentence after all, as long as he's in full-on snark mode.

"No. I mean I am, in college. But I'm not taking any psych courses. I know what a Freudian slip is, Mr. Stark." What Peter doesn't know is why Mr. Stark texting him when he meant to text Pepper Potts would qualify as one. The simplest answer can't possibly be the right one.

"Great. Good."

Peter expects the baffling conversation to end there. Sometimes interacting with Mr. Stark was just like that - like being sucked up into a tornado or a hurricane or something, and after a few insane minutes or days you'd just get spit out in some random direction with no warning. Like going to Germany, or walking home after the ferry thing, or getting offered a spot on the Avengers at the ripe old age of fifteen.

But right now Mr. Stark isn't saying anything else, and he also doesn't seem to be making any moves towards ending the call.

"Are you sure you're okay, sir?" Peter asks.

"Don't worry about me, kid. I'm always okay. If you're okay, I'm okay."

"Okay," Peter replies, feeling like the word has lost all meaning at this point. "Drink some water," he adds, after a beat.

Mr. Stark snorts. "Glad to hear you're learning something useful at college."

Peter wishes Mr. Stark a good night, and after a minute, the man hangs up. 

It takes a long time to finish his problem set, after that. Not because the last problem is particularly difficult, but because his mind keeps wandering off, replaying moments of their conversation. Especially that last bit. _If you're okay, I'm okay_? What did that even mean?

Of course Peter was okay, he wasn't the one drunk texting people by accident at four in the morning.

Peter scrawls out the final line of the solution to the last problem. It's not his cleanest work, but it's done, and at this point that's the best he can manage. He collapses into bed, exhausted and perturbed, vaguely wondering how awkward it would be if he went to check in on Mr. Stark the next morning, after class. Would Mr. Stark even remember anything that'd happened?

* * *

» Peter checks in on Mr. Stark after class. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53575522#afterclass)  
(Chapter 8)

» Tired as he is, Peter wakes up well before his alarm the next morning. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53575645#wakeearly)  
(Chapter 9)

* * *


	7. Call (2)

  
  


A minute later, Peter's phone rings.

He's not sure what to expect. Maybe Mr. Stark is calling because he finally noticed who he was texting, and he wants to tell Peter it was all a mistake. That wouldn't really require a phone call though, would it? Peter has no idea. He's never been in a situation like this before.

He picks up the phone, half expecting to be let down easy. What he gets instead is Mr. Stark cursing under his breath and possibly dropping the phone, by the sound of things.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter asks, feeling like an idiot. Probably you weren't supposed to keep calling someone "mister" once they started sexting you. Well, or maybe you did.

Mr. Stark curses again.

"Kid, you can't say things like that. Please don't say things like that. Okay?"

It hits Peter like a sledgehammer that Mr. Stark is drunk. Like, really obviously drunk.

"Say things like what, sir?" Peter asks.

"Like that. Jesus Christ, kid, you have no idea do you?"

Peter wants to ask if Mr. Stark is okay, but apparently everything he says is something he isn't supposed to say, so he keeps his mouth shut, waiting for Mr. Stark to continue. He also wishes Mr. Stark would stop calling him 'kid' so much, like he's repeating it on purpose.

"Hey, wait - where are you right now?" Mr. Stark asks. "Aren't you at school? Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

Peter figures that multiple direct questions probably signifies implicit permission to speak. "Yeah, I'm at school - I'm in my dorm. I was working on a pset."

"Good. Okay. That's good. That's really good, Pete."

Peter isn't sure he agrees that being awake at 4AM working on a problem set is all that good, really, but it's not like he's going to argue. He's glad that at least Mr. Stark has stopped telling him not to talk. It's still pretty worrying though - Mr. Stark isn't making a whole lot of sense.

"Mr. Stark - do you need me to come over?"

"No. Or yes. You can come over and work on your school... thing. Whatever it was. If you want. Lab's always open for you, you know that."

Peter does know that. He also knows that yeah, Mr. Stark doesn't always pay a whole lot of attention to what Peter says about his school stuff, but it's pretty worrisome that he literally can't remember Peter telling him he was working on a problem set barely a few seconds ago.

Checking on Mr. Stark would be the responsible thing to do. The problem set can wait.

* * *

» Peter heads to the tower. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53585500#visit)  
(Chapter 10)

* * *


	8. After Class

Peter does his best not to think about anything that may or may not have happened the night before, although he's not particularly successful. He spends most of his morning lecture zoning out, doodling random shapes on his notebook instead of writing down anything actually useful. 

He'd originally planned on grabbing lunch (and possibly a quick nap) between morning lecture and his afternoon class, but instead he pulls on his suit in an empty alleyway and swings over to the tower. Mr. Stark hasn't texted him or called - Peter's been checking all day.

FRIDAY lets Peter into the tower after a soft knock on the window and a quick conference with Karen. Peter steps inside the penthouse, pulling off his mask.

"Thanks FRIDAY. Uh - is he?"

"Mr. Stark is in his workshop."

That's a good sign, Peter thinks. Right? Probably. Unless - 

"Is he awake?" Peter asks.

"Yes, although he probably shouldn't be."

Well that sounded vaguely ominous. Peter thanks FRIDAY again, then steels himself and heads downstairs.

What he finds isn't quite what he expected - although to be perfectly honest he has no idea what he was expecting. It wasn't Mr. Stark sitting on a lab stool, dressed and awake, although obviously a little worse for wear, about to inject something into the meat of his shoulder. He flinches and almost drops the injector when Peter knocks on the glass door.

Peter waves awkwardly. Mr. Stark stares at him for a beat, setting the injector down on the lab bench, then raises his eyebrows in question - Peter is familiar enough with the expression. _You coming in?_

He does.

"Hey."

"Hey, kid. Thought you had class today?"

Apparently they're going with the 'ignore the incident completely' option for dealing with last night. That's fine, Peter thinks. That's totally cool. He can roll with that.

"I did - I do. I have to get back soon. I just uh, wanted to stop by to make sure you were okay." Peter doesn't mean to, but his eyes flick over to the injector.

"Just a little project I'm working on. You can stand down on the after school special thing, if that's what the look is, they're not performance enhancing drugs, I promise."

"Uh huh."

Mr. Stark regards him in silence. He really does look rough. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair is sticking up in weird ways that are definitely nothing like his usual artfully careless style. He smells strongly of coffee and sweat and... Axe body spray? Peter frowns. Weird. But even accounting for all that, the thing is, he looks _good_. Good enough that Peter's throat goes dry remembering his impromptu offer from the night before. 

"It's not," Mr. Stark says, and it takes a minute for Peter to remember what he's talking about. Oh - right, the injector.

"It's a blood alcohol monitor, if you want to know. Programmed to deactivate some of my communications access if I'm over a certain limit."

"Like last night?" Peter asks, swallowing.

"Pretty much exactly like last night."

Peter nods. That's a reasonable step to take. Well, okay, so it wouldn't be reasonable for most people, but Mr. Stark isn't most people. He can engineer and program something like that for himself even with what must be a raging hangover and probably not a ton of sleep. That's just how he is. And if he's so concerned about accidentally texting Peter again with the kind of thing he sent last night then, yeah. That kind of says everything, doesn't it?

"I didn't mind," Peter hears himself say, because the first thing to go when he hasn't slept is his brain-to-mouth filter. "If you were wondering."

Mr. Stark blinks at him. He looks at the injector, and then back at Peter.

"You didn't... mind."

"No. I mean, I was in the middle of trying to get this problem set done and then I had class first thing this morning, so like, the timing could've been better, but other than that I was fine with it. Like, a hundred percent fine with it. If you had meant to send it to me," he tacks on. _Stop talking_ , Peter begs himself, but the need to explain overrides what little must remain of his sense of self-preservation. "Which you didn't. So it's all kind of moot anyway, I guess."

"I wasn't trying to text Pepper," Mr. Stark says.

"Oh. Okay. Yeah, that's fine too. Someone else then."

This time Mr. Stark rolls his eyes. Then he rubs both hands down his face, broadcasting exhaustion. "Not someone else, kid. You. Hence the - " he waves vaguely towards the injector.

Peter's brain short circuits, or whatever the biological equivalent is. In all honestly, he's not entirely sure this conversation isn't some sleep-deprived fever-dream. Any minute now he's going to wake up in class with an awkward boner and his face stuck to his notebook with drool. He'd really, really like the option to restart this conversation after two - no, maybe four - four hours of good sleep, so he can come up with a coherent response to what he thinks Mr. Stark is suggesting.

"Maybe you should wait before you inject that thing. Sleep on it first," is what he comes up with.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And... maybe after you sleep on it, you can text me again?"

One side of Mr. Stark's mouth quirks up in a grin. 

"I can do that."

* * *

~ FIN ~

* * *

[Play Again ?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53092375#start)  
(Chapter 1)


	9. Wake Up Early

Despite how tired he is, Peter wakes up well before his alarm goes off the next morning. His brain might be exhausted, but his body is very clearly not. He snakes a hand down under the covers, slipping inside the waistband of his boxers.

Really, this is Mr. Stark's fault. There was no way he didn't know about Peter's embarrassingly longstanding crush, and then to go ahead and send him a text like that? Even if it was by accident, he'd basically left Peter with no choice. There was literally no way he wasn't going to jerk off to the prospect of Mr. Stark going to town on his... town.

Peter wraps his hand around his dick, imagining what it would feel like. Mr. Stark would definitely know what he was doing with his mouth, although given the circumstances last night Peter can't help but imagine it would be a little bit sloppy - teeth scraping against his skin, maybe a little bit too wet. Peter would probably end up with beard burn all across his neck, his chest, his upper thighs.

He slams a hand over his mouth to stop himself from moaning. Sure it was early in the morning and possibly no one else was awake yet, but the dorm room walls were notoriously thin. 

Of course, Peter wouldn't have to worry about that if they were at the tower. He could probably make all the noise he wanted, there.

Peter smears precum over the head of his cock, the slickness of it making everything easier, faster. Mr. Stark would probably have lube on hand, instead of the cheap pump bottle of hand lotion Peter kept by his bed and pretended wasn't for exactly what he was doing now. He's already too far gone to care about getting some lotion now. 

He ends up coming in his fist with a gasp. He allows himself a minute to lay there, eyes closed, enjoying the lazy-warm afterglow of his orgasm before he forces himself to open his eyes and look at the clock.

 _Fuck_ , he's gonna be late for class.

* * *

» Peter checks in on Mr. Stark after class. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53575522#afterclass)  
(Chapter 8)

* * *


	10. Go to the tower

Mr. Stark blinks at Peter, like he doesn't quite trust his eyes, and Peter wonders if maybe it was the best idea to come over after all. Whatever texts he may have accidentally or not so accidentally sent, Mr. Stark is pretty clearly in no condition for company. He's practically swaying on his feet, half-leaning against the door as he stares uncomprehendingly at Peter.

Peter sets a hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from the door so he can step inside the penthouse. Mr. Stark leans into the touch, then back away.

"Kid, what're you doing here?" he asks.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Of course I'm okay. I'm always okay. Weren't you supposed to be doing... something? Some kind of school something."

"My problem set, yeah. I can finish that tomorrow Mr. Stark, don't worry about that."

"Okay."

And then Mr. Stark just stands there. Looking at Peter.

"Should we maybe - do you want to sit down?" Peter asks, desperate to break them out of this awkward moment.

"Sure," Mr. Stark says agreeably, sinking down onto the couch with an almost lazy sort of grace Peter knows he'd never be able to replicate. "Hey, you want a drink? I got this fantastic straight rye, you gotta try it - "

"No thanks, sir."

Mr. Stark freezes in place, and for the first time Peter realizes what it is he's seeing there: hunger. It's hunger. For _Peter_. 

There are a lot of things Peter could do with this information. He could ask Mr. Stark if that text had really been a mistake. He could call Mr. Stark 'sir' again, just to see; just to test the theory. It's tempting. But he also knows he wouldn't ever forgive himself for taking advantage of Mr. Stark's obvious vulnerability, so instead he heads over to the kitchen and fills two glasses of water, pushing one of them into Mr. Stark's hand. Peter takes a seat on the other end of the couch, unsure of what to do next. 

"Pepper and I broke up," Mr. Stark says, out of nowhere.

All of Peter's idle speculation screeches to a halt.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't be. I'm not."

Peter finds that somewhat hard to believe, given Mr. Stark's current state of inebriation, but he keeps his doubts to himself. Mr. Stark must see it on his face anyway, because he waves his hand in dismissal - it's the one holding the glass, spilling water down the sides. He glances down at his now-wet hand, seeming to remember the water only now, then takes a long swallow and sets the glass down on the coffee table.

"Seriously, it's fine. This," he gestures at himself, "this isn't anything about that. Okay, so it's maybe like twelve percent about that. "

"What's the other eighty-eight?"

Mr. Stark looks up at Peter, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. Peter has that feeling again, like standing on the edge of a skyscraper before he leaps, in the split second of terror and elation before his subconscious mind remembers he's done this before; he's not going to die. The difference of course being that he hasn't done _this_ before. Not actually believed that his long-standing attraction to Mr. Stark might not be totally one sided, even if all that means is a drunken proposition after a breakup.

Peter's not sure how good of an idea it would actually be, even assuming some kind of rebound fling is even a possibility after Mr. Stark has sobered up tomorrow morning. Does he want it? Absolutely. Will he be a complete disaster when it ends? Also yes, absolutely. 

In the time that Peter's been contemplating that lopsided grin and what it might possibly mean, Mr. Stark appears to have fallen asleep.

Right.

This is, actually, what Peter came over here to do - make sure Mr. Stark was okay, help him out if he needed it. Peter slips off the couch and carefully maneuvers Mr. Stark's legs up onto the cushions in his place. He's pretty sure the position is going to kill Mr. Stark's back tomorrow, there's bound to be all kinds of complaining about it in the morning, but then again there's bound to be a lot of general misery going on given the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table next to them. The smell is actually a little bit nauseating in its intensity, this close up. Peter caps the bottle and brings it over to the kitchen, then he heads down the hall.

"Hey, Friday?" he whispers, even though he's fairly certain it would take a lot to wake Mr. Stark, at the moment. "Where does Mr. Stark keep his painkillers?"

"Consumer grade or special order?"

Peter blinks, caught off-guard by the question. "Uh, regular stuff please. For him, not me."

"There should be ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. Upstairs, third door on the right."

"Right. Thanks."

Peter's been to the penthouse plenty of times before, but he's never actually stayed over or had reason to seek out Mr. Stark's bedroom. The room is almost exactly as he pictured it (not like he hasn't spent time imagining it, over the years): modern and comfortable, with a large bed and an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. It's still dark out, just enough of the buildings lit up to make the skyline twinkle.

Peter grabs the ibuprofen from the bathroom, then stops on his way out of the room. Mr. Stark would undoubtedly be more comfortable sleeping in his bed, and it's not like it would take more than a couple minutes for Peter to get him upstairs. Decision made, he leaves the bottle of pills on the nightstand and heads back downstairs.

Mr. Stark is still passed out on the couch, not having shifted at all since Peter left. Peter crouches down in front of him uncertainly.

"Mr. Stark? I'm gonna take you upstairs, okay?" he says, quietly, not actually expecting a reply, but it just seems wrong to pick the man up without warning.

Careful as he can, Peter sneaks one hand underneath Mr. Stark's shoulders and the other underneath his legs. Mr. Stark grumbles a little at being lifted, but he doesn't open his eyes or otherwise react. Peter has a brief, hysterical moment of thinking how this must look; carrying Mr. Stark - _Iron Man himself,_ sans the suit - bridal style up the sweeping penthouse stairs.

It is sort of weirdly intimate. Sure, Peter has caught Mr. Stark with a web once or twice, mid-fight to prevent a crash landing, but that was in the suit. It wasn't body to body like this, close enough that Peter can feel the warmth of his skin through their clothing. He sets Mr. Stark down on his bed, pulling the sheet up over him and steadfastly ignoring the unwanted erection that absolutely refuses to go away.

There's a glass of water and the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, at the ready for whenever Mr. Stark wakes up.

Mr. Stark shifts around on the mattress, stretching out his legs and reaching one hand up to grab at the pillow under his head. Peter flees the room before he spends any more time being the creepy-watching-someone-sleep guy.

Although once he gets downstairs he realizes he has no idea what the etiquette is for this sort of thing.

Leaving seems a little cold, what if Mr. Stark wakes up sick and needs help? Okay, so probably if he woke up sick he would have Friday and an army of drones to take care of him, and this is also definitely not the first time Mr. Stark has gotten completely shitfaced, and he's managed to survive perfectly fine on his own so far.

But, still.

There's also the pressing issue of Peter's... pressing issue. He jerks off in the guest bathroom, rehearsing an only semi-convincing mental argument against himself about why this isn't completely inappropriate and weird. He comes with with the smell of whiskey and Mr. Stark's cologne in his nose, trying to imagine just what Mr. Stark running his tongue over every inch of his skin would feel like. 

* * *

» Stay over. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53792554#stayover)  
(Chapter 11)

» Go home. [Next Chapter →](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53575645#wakeearly)  
(Chapter 9)

* * *


	11. Stay Over

Without anything better to do, Peter wanders down to the lab. He pokes around Tony's lab table, careful not to break or accidentally cause an explosion of some kind. But he's honestly too tired to work on anything, and he ends up back in the penthouse, stretched out on the couch. He doesn't mean to fall asleep like that, but it's crazy late and the couch is large and comfortable.

Peter wakes up to an obnoxiously sunlight-filled room and Tony Stark staring at him, looking perplexed.

Mr. Stark frowns. "You get kicked out of student housing or something?"

"Uh, no?"

"Any reason particular you're camped out on my couch then, or is this some new fraternity rush thing I should know about?"

Peter is groggy and still only half-awake, but realization comes crashing in like a wave of cold water to the face. _Mr. Stark doesn't remember_. Not the texts, not the phone call, nothing from last night. Peter wonders briefly if he should - if he even could've - found a way to delete the texts and call records from last night. They both could have pretended none of it ever happened then. Too late for that now, though, probably. Peter scrambles to think of a reasonable excuse that doesn't involve drunken sexting and the hunger he knows he saw in Mr. Stark's eyes.

"Um. Sorry, there was this big dorm party last night, and I just needed a place to crash."

Mr. Stark regards him for a beat, then nods, turning towards the kitchen.

"Door's always open. You know there are rooms with actual beds though, right?"

Peter mumbles a reply, watching as Mr. Stark makes a beeline for the coffee machine.

"Want some?" Mr. Stark calls back over his shoulder.

"Sure. Thanks."

Peter checks his phone. He hadn't set an alarm before falling asleep on the couch last night, so he's not particularly surprised to find that he's already slept halfway through his first class. Shit. He doesn't regret it one bit though, not when Mr. Stark hands him a mug of fresh coffee and slumps down on the couch next to him. Mr. Stark's hair is stuck up at all odd angles, and he clearly needs a shower and a shave.

Peter's pretty sure he doesn't look much better, come to think of it. He self-consciously runs a hand through his hair to make himself look slightly more presentable. Mr. Stark clocks the gesture and snorts.

"Lost cause, kid," he says, good-naturedly. 

"Could say the same to you," Peter retorts.

"Yeah, we're both prizes."

They drink their coffee in silence for a few minutes, both of them too tired and desperate for a caffeine fix to focus on much else. Tony doesn't speak again until he's finished his mug.

"You've got class today?"

"Later, yeah."

"Well the guest bedrooms all have en-suites. If you want to get cleaned up first, take your pick."

Peter appreciates the offer, a little bit warmed by it. Even if maybe Mr. Stark doesn't remember anything about last night, Peter's not sure how many other people have standing permission to just crash in Mr. Stark's penthouse whenever they want. It's got to be something pretty rare, really.

Mr. Stark grabs Peter's empty mug off of the coffee table and brings it over to the sink, along with his own.

Peter rubs his eyes, then rolls his shoulders and stretches out his legs. The couch was comfortable enough, and almost definitely easier on Peter than it would've been for Mr. Stark, but that didn't mean it was quite the same as waking up in a real bed. He scooches forward and turns just far enough that he can stretch out his arms behind him, letting his head fall back, rolling from side to side to work out the kinks in his neck. When he opens his eyes, Mr. Stark is staring at him.

"I, uh, I guess I'll go take that shower now," Peter says, awkwardly. He pushes up off the couch, heading towards the hall with the guest bedrooms, hyperaware of the way Mr. Stark seems to be watching his every step.

Mr. Stark is nowhere to be found by the time Peter makes it out of the shower, which is disappointing, but not entirely surprising. Peter swings back to campus with just enough time to change his clothes and grab his books before he has to run to class.

His phone buzzes just as he's taking his seat.

That was me, trying not to text you

If you were still wondering

Peter frowns down at his phone. He has to put it away soon, or risk the wrath of Prof. Reese, which he'd really rather avoid after being late not once but twice in past two weeks, because bad guys apparently had no respect for afternoon lecture schedules or the participation portion of Peter's grades. He types back a quick "?" in reply, eyeing both his phone screen and the minute hand on the wall clock.

?

Peter sneaks his phone down into his lap, so it's not quite so obvious. Professor Reese is already up at the front of the room, scrawling out something on the board that Peter should probably be copying down. Instead, he glances down at his phone one last time.

The other 88%

* * *

~ FIN ~

* * *

[Play Again ?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235002/chapters/53092375#start)  
(Chapter 1)

**Author's Note:**

>  _A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts._  
>  \- someone at some point, I guess


End file.
